


I'm Here Every Day

by blue3ski



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Evil vampire Anya, F/M, Gleb and dancing, Nightmares, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, Twilight AU, Vampire AU, Vampire slayer Gleb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-01-26 02:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12546364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue3ski/pseuds/blue3ski
Summary: A collection of Glenya drabbles written for Tumblr prompts! (May or may not be set in the Comrade and Princess universe)





	1. Write-o-ween: Chimerical and Euphonious

_Chimerical_

He’s watching when she enters the Palais Garnier.

She looks nothing like the Anya he met in Leningrad – she’s wearing a gown of royal blue that sparkles in the lights, and her hair is swept up. She’s resplendent, and she looks every bit like the princess she’s about to claim she is.

It’s not just how she looks, but how she carries herself now. There is a confidence in her that he hasn’t seen before. It is something different from what he saw when she was lying through her teeth to a Bolshevik officer. This is a confidence borne of _knowing_ , and he wonders what has brought this out in her.

She turns in his general direction, and she smiles. It’s a sweet smile, a little shy and nervous as though she’s hoping to impress. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, and he can’t stop his breath from catching. Because she’s astonishingly beautiful the way she is now, and the gun feels so heavy against his heart.

She steps forward, and his hand twitches, wanting to reach out. But she walks past him, and he sees where she’s really looking.

The street brat is bent over, tying his shoe. He looks up to see Anya standing over him, and he seems to be in awe.

As Dmitry stands, Anya fusses over him, straightening his tie, and Gleb has to look away. Out of the corner of his eye, he just glimpses her taking Dmitry’s arm, that lovely smile still on her face, and walking inside.

It was a dream. A chimerical dream. Nothing more. He closed his eyes, willing the fantasy to die.

Just like she would.                           

* * *

         

_Euphonious_

Gleb is lost in a sea of silence.

He can see the shadowy figures behind his eyelids – he knows they’re talking, but he can’t hear a word. Yet, he instinctively knows that something bad is about to happen. He doesn’t want to be here, but he can’t move.

Someone raises a gun, and Gleb sees that it has gone off. The silhouette of a bullet flies through the air and pierces a body. He flinches, but at the same time, he vaguely wonders what he’s afraid of if there’s no sound.

_Why is there no sound?_

A blue-eyed spectre stretches an arm out. Gleb looks down, and red is pooling under the soles of his boots, seeping into the leather. He wants to run and  _hide_. But how can he turn his back when he can’t listen for what’s coming?

He stands frozen, and his surroundings darken until they match the nothingness he hears.

_Gleb._

But it’s soft, it’s too soft. And Gleb is far too buried beneath the void. He closes his eyes, letting himself sink further because there’s nowhere else to go.

A single pure note rings in his ear like an electric shock. It’s followed by more, and he’s not prepared for them. The sudden influx of sound is like shouting.   
  
His eyes fly open, latching onto blue eyes, and he convulses slightly. 

Slender hands grip his shoulders tightly, holding him to a small frame. The song continues to flow over him, and as he grows accustomed to hearing again, his heart begins to calm.

It’s Anya. As the now-euphonious melody ends, she whispers words of gentle assurance. He holds on to her, to consciousness, to safety. 

To sound.


	2. Write-o-ween: Hiraeth and Nepenthe

Gleb sometimes has to struggle to remember what Leningrad looked like.

He’s been in France for so long, he has crafted a routine. He gets up in the morning in Paris, eats a (French) breakfast, goes to work, comes home, and the next day, it starts all over again. It’s not a bad life by all means – a part of him has begun to learn to appreciate the odd freedom of this new city. The lack of secrecy, the feeling of not lacking anything.

And Anya is there with him.

Yet it’s hard to remember why that’s enough when he’s bolting upright in bed at night, unable to remember the appearance of the Neva because all the images his brain conjures up are of the Seine. He’ll grip the blankets so hard the thread bites into his skin, willing himself not to go back to sleep until he can recall the right river in perfect detail. His memories of Russia are all he has now – he cannot bear to lose them.

He hates himself for not making more effort to burn her into his mind like a brand. Did Russia actually mean so little to him that she is easily replaced with the pomp and blare of another land? The thought horrifies him, and he is driven to the window, staring into the night sky and longing for the simple comfort of his simple life – a life that now seems almost surreal.

* * *

 

_Anya remembers what St Petersburg looked like._

_She walks the streets of France well off, free, and found at last. But she still feels small and insignificant and invisible. When she looks up at the Palais Garnier, she sees Yusupov Palace, and she’s the street sweeper still wondering over her past._

_She can now recall the Russia she grew up in with clarity – the grandeur, the vitality, the laughter, the love. Her knowledge of who she is what makes the memories of the homeland press into the fabric of her mind, the joy and pain entwining._

_She has been home here in Paris for so long, but she often wakes up believing she’s still in St Petersburg. On warm mornings, she thinks she’s still tangled in the rough sheets of the bed in Gleb’s old flat. On windy nights, she’s roused by the cold and sees the icy, unforgiving metal of the bridge above her head when she opens her eyes – the grief over realizing it was all a dream overwhelms her, and she can’t stop the silent tears from coming._

_Then she rolls over and sees Gleb slumbering beside her, and she comes back to the present. Her trembling fingers trace the solidness of him, and it anchors her to reality._

* * *

 

Gleb stares out the window and imagines that he’s back at his flat in Leningrad, watching the night pass from behind the glass. He closes his eyes as chilly air stings his cheeks, and commands his mind to replace the bright lights of Paris with the muted glow of Russia’s streets.

He’s getting there when he’s jolted by a soft cry, and he whirls to find Anya half-sitting up, desperately patting down his side of the bed. Her breathing is quickening with panic, loud in the silence of their room.

He breaks his concentration and rushes to her side. In his mind’s eye, he can see the image he has worked to reconstruct slipping away. But in that moment, it doesn’t matter. Anya needs him.

He takes her by the shoulders, putting himself in her line of sight. “Anya. Anya.”

She looks at him, but her eyes are faraway. “Where am I?”

“Home,” he replies urgently, finding her hands and lacing his fingers through them so she can feel him there. “You’re home in Paris.”

She grips his hands tightly, her blue eyes exploring his face. “Gleb.” She buries her nose in his neck, and he can feel her breathing him in. He embraces her, bringing her close.

Once she has stopped quivering, she lifts her head a little to press a kiss to his collarbone. He loosens his hold, satisfied that she’s alright now.

“I was thinking of the bridge again,” she admits. “It was so cold, and I could hear the Neva next to me.”

Gleb’s insides clench with longing. “Do you remember what it sounds like?”

“I can’t forget,” she whispers.

“Tell me,” he encourages her. He needs it, and perhaps she does too.   

She begins talking, and Gleb can see his bridge and his river clearly again through the pictures she paints with her words. Her voice is like a balm that knits the fragments of his thoughts together, and he breathes easier.

She remembers.

* * *

 

_Anya feels her shoulders sag as she describes the St Petersburg that is always in her mind._

_Already, the bridge is a little less vivid, a little less alive._

_But she wishes it wasn’t Gleb she has to tell all this to. He seems to have settled into life in Paris so smoothly, she tries not to remind him of Russia. Anya knows it’s impossible, but she hopes he can forget what he left behind for her sake so it will bring him less pain every day he’s here._

_And so she keeps all her recollections to herself, until tonight._

_He shivers slightly, and she looks up at him. His eyes are closed, and he’s biting his lower lip._

_“Gleb.” She reaches up to touch his cheek. “I’m sorry you had to –”_

_“Don’t be,” he replies, his voice saturated with emotion. “I need you to remind me.”_

_He cannot allow himself to forget. And she cannot allow herself to be lost to memory._

_So she keeps talking, and it’s as though the act is releasing each Russian landmark from the captivity of a mental prison.  
_

_He takes them all into himself. And for the night, they are mended._


	3. "Right to the good parts" prompt list #9: We’re hiding from the authorities and it’s very close quarters in here, I can feel your body against mine.

Gleb had never done anything reckless in his life.

From his childhood on, he believed that it was only right for a man to own up to his actions at all times, to never shirk away from the consequences of one’s actions. It was how he had been raised, and a philosophy he had always carried with him.

It was as strong as his absolute refusal to dance.

“Come on, Gleb,” Anya was pleading.

“No,” he replied firmly. He winced as he took in his surroundings, wondering what had possessed him to come to the Neva Club. If it hadn’t been for the countess…

_“Get your coats on – we’re going dancing!” Lily declared loudly as the door to the Dowager Empress’s quarters clicked shut behind her._

_Gleb looked up from the book he was reading, his brow furrowed in disdain. He decided he wouldn’t grace that with a response. Dancing. Hah._

_But Anya’s face brightened. “Dancing? Where?”_

_“Why, the Neva Club, of course! They serve excellent vodka!” Lily glanced at Gleb, whose face had puckered at the mention of the name. “Oh, don’t look so sour. You’ve never even been in there!”_

_“And I won’t ever be.” He hid his face behind his book again._

_Anya plucked the book out of his hands. “Gleb, let’s go!”_

_“We don’t dance,” he said stiffly. Anya’s eyebrows rose, and he hurried to clarify himself. “By we, I mean…soldiers.”_

_“Yes you do,” Lily sang out. “Enthusiastically too. I speak from experience.”_

_“Not this one.” Gleb held out his hand so Anya could return his book._

_“Gleb, I haven’t even properly gone out since we’ve been in Paris,” Anya protested._

_“I’m not stopping you from going with Lily.” He made an attempt to snatch his book back._

_“You know, he’s right,” Lily said thoughtfully. “Might be good to have someone here watching over Her Majesty.”_

_“Thank you.” Gleb huffed, though he didn’t particularly like the idea of babysitting. But if it got him out of dancing, then he was prepared to at least pretend he cared about the old woman._

_Anya looked disappointed, but Lily looked excited. “We’ll have a girls’ night out! I’m sure there’s a dress I can lend you. I’ll doll you up a bit too – oh, they’ll_ love _you at the club!”_

_Gleb twitched, but he chose to ignore the comment. He knew what Lily was trying. He would not fall for it._

_An hour later, Anya and Lily stepped out of Lily’s room, and Gleb’s grip on his book tightened._

_“Doesn’t she look stunning?” Lily quipped, a sly smile on her face. “A real shame you’re not coming, Gleb.”_

_Anya grinned nervously at him, twirling to show off the short, flashy midnight blue dress that fit so well, Gleb highly doubted it had ever been Lily’s in the first place. Her hair was curled and put up to accentuate her neck, which was already being given a wide berth by the low neckline of the dress…_

_Gleb slammed his book shut. “I’ll get my coat.”_

Anya sighed and gave up, leaving him to his corner of the room. Lily, the life of the party the second they had entered the club (with Gleb trying hard to hide his face), intercepted her immediately and began introducing her to the crowd. As agreed, Anya would be presented everywhere as a new lady-in-waiting to the Dowager Empress, and he could tell their ruse was working – he could see the eager smiles on the faces of the royals slipping as soon as they realized they were talking to a servant girl. Gleb gritted his teeth at the disrespect, but he had to hold his tongue.

The music and insipid chatter were making his head ache, and he wandered off to look for a drink. He hadn’t had vodka in forever, and now seemed like as good a time as any to be reintroduced to alcohol. Lily  _had_ said he could have whatever he wanted…

As one of the servants went to get his drink, Gleb watched as Anya, laughing, tried to keep up with the movements of a young man across from her. She clearly had quite the propensity for dancing – not that he should have been surprised, as she  _had_ spent her childhood learning to dance for the Tsar’s balls. But her motions were also more than just practiced – there was pure exhilaration on her face. She looked free and fluid, as though the rest of the world could vanish around her and she’d still be moving to the music.

It was enchanting.  _She_ was enchanting. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, sparkling and alive in that midnight blue dress.

A tap on his shoulder to announce the arrival of his drink brought him back to earth rather unpleasantly. Taking his glass, Gleb began to retreat to his corner. He took one more look at Anya.

She wasn’t laughing anymore. She had taken a step back from the young man, an expression of distaste on her face. Her blue eyes were scanning the room quickly. Gleb frowned and put his drink down.

The offending brat took one large step toward Anya, now far too close to her for Gleb’s comfort. Gleb started in their direction, arriving just as the other man closed his fingers around Anya’s right arm.

“Everything alright?” Gleb managed to ask civilly, even though he felt like he was biting off each word.

Anya looked both relieved and irritated at his appearance. “Nothing I can’t handle.” With a forceful tug, she pulled her arm out of the other man’s grasp.

“Wait –” the man demanded, reaching out again. He paid Gleb no mind as he kept his eyes on Anya, intent.

It was military training, Gleb would claim later. Just a snap reaction to what he perceived to be an injustice before him. At any rate, it was without a second thought and utter satisfaction that Gleb plowed his fist into the man’s nose.

Anya stared at him in shock, and Gleb became aware of gasps all around him. Somewhere in the crowd, there was the sound of a glass breaking.

The man he had punched had fallen to the floor, clutching his face. “He hit me!”

As Gleb wiped his hand on his coat, adrenaline coursing through his system, he noticed the many unfriendly stares fixed on him.

“Someone call the police!” a woman’s voice suggested.

Lily pushed her way into the scene, a drink in hand. She clucked her tongue. “Time to go.”

A cacophony of complaints rose up around her, all of which Lily ignored. With her free hand, she shoved Anya at Gleb. “Move.”

She led them to a door in the back of the club, through which she promptly pushed the two of them.

“Go hide somewhere nearby while I talk to the police,” she commanded. She rolled her eyes. “ _Honestly._ ” 

“I will face the consequences of my act  – ” Gleb began. 

With an exasperated glare, she shut the door in their faces.

Gleb realized they were back on the streets of Paris, free from the oppressive company of the club. The relief of the knowledge made him grin until he caught sight of Anya’s glower.

“What were you doing?” she spat. “I told you, I could handle it!”

“He was annoying,” Gleb offered in his defense.

Anya exhaled angrily. “Now you’ve gotten Lily in trouble. That was the son of Count…something or other!”

Gleb couldn’t keep the smirk from forming on his face. He had gotten to punch a royal. His night was made.

“Of  _course_ you’re happy,” Anya grumbled.

The lights from an approaching vehicle flashed in their direction, and she quickly grabbed his hand. “Hide.”

He weaved his fingers through hers as they ducked into a narrow alleyway next to the club that just separated it from the neighboring structure. It was a tighter squeeze than it looked from the outside, and he could feel the beadwork from Anya’s dress pressing into his exposed wrist as she tried to make herself comfortable.

His ears rang as he looked down into her eyes, which were still blazing blue fire. It seemed terribly inappropriate, but it made him want to kiss her.

He wasn’t one to act on terrible impulses. But at that moment, all he could think about was how she had looked when she was dancing, and how he’d felt watching her.

The gap between them was so small, and he closed it easily.

Anya squeaked in apparent surprise when his lips covered hers, and he froze. Perhaps it was a bad idea. Curse spontaneity –

She reached around his neck with her gloved arms, not breaking contact. “Don’t you  _dare_  stop now,” she hissed in a low voice, eyes darker than usual, and electricity shot through Gleb’s veins.

He didn’t hesitate this time, diving right into her mouth. She met him with equal ferocity, pressing closer as she surged up against him. His arms immediately curved around her back, dictated by the buzzing under his skin.

It was just like her dancing, their interplay of lips and tongue. Free and fluid, awash in exhilaration.

It was so very warm in the small space – he could feel it in her skin. She had removed a glove at some point, because he could feel her fingers stroking gently along the nape of his neck. He lifted her a little so her head would be more level with his, and he felt around with one hand, looking for a way to undo her hair. Anya made a satisfied noise in the back of her throat.

Suddenly, she pulled away sharply, and Gleb almost whined.

“ _I SAID, AHEM._ ” Lily was standing a few feet away from them, arms crossed over her chest, one eyebrow raised.

The haze in Gleb’s mind cleared as though someone had thrown snow right in his face. His ears burned as he lowered Anya, and she released his neck, her face reddening. They were still standing so close, he could feel their hearts pounding in sync.

Sighing loudly, Lily made a show of turning her back to them. Anya leaned over and snuck a quick kiss before edging out of the alleyway. Her lips were now quite full and rosy, and from how numb Gleb’s mouth felt, he knew the same was probably true for him.

He quickly smoothed his hair and tightened his tie as Anya straightened her dress. She fiddled with her now half-loosened hairdo, trying to restore it.

“Can I turn around now? Is it safe?” Lily asked the night air loudly.

Gleb cleared his throat. “Yes.” His voice still came out slightly hoarse, and Anya tried to stifle a laugh.

“Don’t forget the glove,” Lily commented dryly.

“Oh.” Anya turned back to the alleyway to pick up her discarded glove, which had fallen to the ground.

“Well, I’ve convinced the police it was all a silly misunderstanding and they won’t arrest you.” Lily started walking, and he and Anya hurriedly fell into step behind her. “I just won’t be able to show my face at the Neva Club for a while.”

“Sorry,” Gleb muttered. Not that he was  _actually_  sorry about it…

“They’ve banned you,” she added.

“Yes.” He tried to sound contrite and not thrilled.

“And next time, for heaven’s sake, just dance with her.”


	4. Prompt: Glenya Vampire AU Starter

Anastasia watches him enter Yusupov Palace, and she almost laughs.

This is he, then. Vaganov’s brat. 

She’s heard stories, after the Revolution ended. That the man who had helped kill her family and end the Romanovs’ centuries-long reign of terror had left a son behind. That the boy had chosen to continue what his father had started and take up the stake as well.

She had hoped Gleb Vaganov would present a better challenge than his father, whose neck had snapped far too easily under her fingers when she found him after Yekaterinburg. But from the looks of it, she probably should not expect too much.

She watches the Vaganov boy’s eyes dart around the seemingly empty, dusty room. Even from where she’s hiding, she can read the determination written all over his face. He is too raw, too open. He has none of his father’s steely poise – the poise that made the elder Vaganov so effective and ruthless as a vampire slayer.

Gleb Vaganov is skilled enough – she can tell by the fluidity of his movement. If she drops down upon him now, he might even put up a good fight before she tears his throat out.

Anastasia considers it, teasing a bit of blood from the corner of her mouth. If only she hadn’t just eaten. It would be too much of a waste to simply kill this one – she hasn’t had the chance to taste Vaganov blood yet, after all. She had had to ensure that no one could detect her hand in the elder Vaganov’s death before, lest his cohorts continue the hunt if they thought that a surviving Romanov might have been involved.

Ten years ago, killing a Vaganov had been swift vengeance for taking her family from her. Now, she has time to complete her revenge. She wants a Vaganov to fuel her existence.

Gleb Vaganov looks in her direction and Anastasia freezes.

He can’t possibly see her from where he’s standing. But his gaze lingers, and her senses go into high alert as he tightens his grip on his stake. Her instincts scream against it, but she boldly meets his eyes.

It feels like she’s staring into his very soul, and she finds herself unable to turn away.

After what feels like far too long, he finally relaxes, breaking the spell. He turns away, and she watches him leave, terrifically enchanted.

She’s relieved she didn’t drink him right away. Veins still prickling, Anastasia lets the body she’s still clutching fall to the floor with a loud thud.

The boy is special. No doubt, he deserves her effort. She doesn’t want him to look at her as just another vampire to destroy. She wants to enthrall him, to draw him in, to make him feel the same way she does now.

She wants to see the horror and betrayal in his eyes when she claims his life.

She closes her eyes as anticipation surges through her, and smiles as she feels her features contort into her true face.

Gleb Vaganov still needs a weapon, poor bastard. Unfortunately for him, she  _is_  a weapon.

* * *

 

She clutches the broom tightly, head bowed. It’s been a while since she’s been out in public like this.

Evening has fallen, taking the deadly sun with it. She was afraid she might have missed Gleb Vaganov, but he’s still there, making his pretty little speeches about equality and the new order in Russia. During the day, he’s the new government’s little lapdog – she supposes it certainly gives him good reason to carry weaponry around.

She positions herself apart from the crowd, watching. A group of peasants nearby are muttering mutinously, but they immediately scatter as he approaches, his face cold and stern. She feels it when his eyes fall on her, and she wonders if she should move closer. Perhaps this is her chance.

A truck backfires loudly, and she falls back with an exclamation, genuinely surprised. Almost immediately, she hears footsteps hurrying towards her.

Show time.

She scuttles backwards away from Gleb, looking at him in fright. He kneels in front of her, his stance placating, and extends a hand to her.

She takes it, and she feels a tremor run through him. As they both stand, she shivers.

“You’re shaking,” he says, concerned. “There’s a tea shop just steps from here. Let me –”

“Thank you.” She cuts him off as she takes her broom back from him.

“What’s your hurry?” he asks. She can see the disappointment in his eyes.

She has barely begun, and already, it’s far too easy. “I can’t lose this job,” she chides him. “They’re not easy to come by. But thank you…comrade?” She blinks questioningly at him.

He flushes a little, and she has to suppress her instinctive reaction to the blood that floods his cheeks. “Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov. And comrade, you are?”

She flashes a tentative smile. “They call me Anya.”

“Anya,” he repeats, and it sounds like he’s turning the word over in his head. She had taken the name a decade ago as an alternate identity upon going on the run – it was inspired by a nurse she had encountered after attacking a hospital to regain her strength.

Anya lets the moment simmer briefly, then she turns to go. She has barely walked a few steps when he calls after her, “I’m here every day!”

She looks back. “Perhaps I’ll see you around sometime, Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov,” she responds sweetly.

“Just Gleb,” he clarifies, visibly flustered.

“Gleb,” she repeats, practically caressing the name with her voice. “Until we meet again.“

She hurries away, but not before she sees him blush again, a boyish smile spreading across his face that makes him look like an eager child.

Later in the night, as she sinks her fangs into the neck of a hapless peasant boy, she thinks of Gleb and muses about how she’ll certainly take him up on that invitation to tea at some point.

He’ll probably make a more exquisite drink than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Pure Anon on Tumblr, who's one of the sweetest people I've interacted with! Bless you for giving me this idea to run with!


	5. Glenya Vampire AU: Bonus Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update because the vampire AU has just been so glorious to work with!

_“The first lesson a Watcher learns is to separate truth from illusion. Because in the world of magicks, it’s the hardest thing to do.” - Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, Angel: Not Fade Away_

* * *

 

Anya doesn’t notice the door closing until it’s too late.

She whirls around. “Gleb,” she breathes out in surprise.

He’s holding a crossbow, pointed directly at her. “Underhanded girl,” he whispers in a voice filled with anger and loathing, and her eyes widen.

He knows.

For a fleeting moment, she thinks about playing the fool, asking him what he means. But she understands that it will be of no use to delay the inevitable.

She turns away from him, trying to get her thoughts in order. She can feel her chest rising and falling rapidly as her breaths grow shallow.

The game is about to come to an end, and she is not ready. It’s too soon and too late at once.

“It’s all an act, is it not?” he remarks harshly behind her. “You don’t really have to breathe, do you?”

She flinches, the words cutting more deeply than she thought they would. Yet they are a reminder. Prepared or not, the time has come for her to do what she always planned to do.

She will play her role. She will not make it more difficult for either of them.

Steeling herself, she pastes a cold smirk on her lips as she faces him again. “Aren’t you a brilliant boy,” she responds with false sweetness.

He tightens his grip on his crossbow. “Who are you?” he demands.

“I thought you already knew,” she replies, taking a deliberate step forward. He immediately reacts to her movement – the weapon stays steady in his hands, and his eyes remain focused on her.

“Who are you?” he repeats.

She realizes what he wants. He’s neither stupid nor in denial. He wants her to say it, to provide the final confirmation that he’s not wrong. So he can go through with what he needs to do.

And she will oblige in full measure. She will no longer be Anya to him. She will be Anastasia, the last remnant of the Romanov vampire family. She is not prepared to kill him, but neither is she ready to die. They will finish what was begun ten years ago properly – vampire against slayer in a fight to the bitter end.

“I am,” she begins as her features morph into her true demonic visage, “the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova.”

Gleb’s breath catches, and he convulses slightly. She glimpses the horror and betrayal in his eyes as they take in her ridged forehead, her feral yellow eyes, and finally, her fangs.

Exactly what she had hoped to see months ago. Only now, the sight brings her no pleasure.

“What now?” she drawls, taking another step, forcing herself to smile around her teeth. “Are you going to kill me, Gleb Vaganov?”

He fires. She manages to sidestep the bolt, which hits the wall behind her and clatters to the floor.

She shakes her head at him. “I expect better,” she challenges him as she crouches slightly and starts to circle him, inching closer. He tosses the crossbow aside and mirrors her motion as he withdraws a stake from his boot.

“I loved you,” he says quietly, and she feels her cool façade falter briefly. She hesitates.

He charges, the stake perfectly positioned to drive home into her heart. But she’s faster, and three centuries of self-preservation instincts kick in. She catches his arm and throws him to the ground, hard, making him lose his grip on the stake. As he gets back to his feet, she picks up the wooden spike and smashes into the nearby table, crushing the sharp end. 

She’s serious now. There is no room for sentimentality tonight. He’s here to kill her.

She lunges at him, but he catches her by the collar and uses her own momentum to send her crashing into the wall behind him. She hisses as the rough plaster crunches under her, scraping her skin and drawing blood. The sight of it infuriates her – that he is the one to make her bleed first. Hurriedly, she shakes off the disorientation. 

He has moved away from her, picking up the crossbow and trying to reload it with the bolt he missed with earlier. She’s not going to give him the chance. She comes at him, and he swings the crossbow at her. Her hand snaps up, wrenching it out of his grasp. With a quick motion, she breaks the weapon over her knee, letting the pieces fall to the floor. 

He inhales sharply, and for the first time, she senses fear emanating from him. Perhaps he is finally understanding who he’s dealing with. But to his credit, he does not waver. As she leaps at him, he pulls another stake from his other boot and whips the blunt end against her temple. She crumples to the ground, dazed. 

Not dazed enough to not see him coming. She lies there, waiting, and then kicks out. Her foot meets his knee with a crack, and he goes down. She’s the first one up, and she strikes him across the face while he’s regaining his bearings, opening a cut on his cheek. The scent of his blood wafts through the air, and she bares her teeth as her entire body tenses in expectation. He swings the pointed end of the stake at her legs, but she’s able to skip backwards out of harm’s way. 

He stands, one leg quivering slightly. Even as he winces, his eyes flash with the same determination she saw that first night. He darts forward again – but he’s slowed by his injury, and this time, she’s ready for him. She catches him from behind, and deals a blow to the back of his head, stunning him.

She locks his hands behind his back with one hand. With the other, she reaches around his neck and finds where the high collar of his uniform opens. In one vicious yank, she rips it off, exposing his throat.

She has won. She opens her mouth and leans in for the kill.

Her teeth graze the skin of his neck, but she cannot bring herself to bite down. Her instincts scream at her to do it, but she simply…can’t.

Caught between shock and disgust at herself, she releases him, staring at her hands. Lost in her own head, she doesn’t see him stir and pick up the stake again, doesn’t see him stalk closer.

Before she knows it, he has grabbed her by the throat and pinned her against the wall. The stake is pressed to her chest, and as he applies more force, the sharp tip breaks her skin, sending a rivulet of blood running down and staining her dress.

Suddenly, he pulls the stake back, reeling backwards. “I can’t,” he says brokenly. She gapes at him as he falls to his knees, staring at the weapon in his hands.

She pushes herself off the wall and kneels down beside him, feeling her face shift back into human form again.

“You are Anastasia, and I’ll be damned for not turning you into dust,” he whispers, his voice pained.

She places a tentative hand on his shoulder. “I am Anastasia. And I will be equally damned for letting you live, Gleb Vaganov.”

He turns his head towards her, and she meets him with a kiss.

It’s a kiss that’s nothing like the innocent, chaste pecks they have shared before - it is charged with passion and desperation. She presses herself flush against him, no longer being careful to keep him from coming too close, and he slides his hand up her back, holding her in place. He adjusts his position, and she’s in his lap as their tongues continue to do battle. 

His other hand comes up to rest over her heart, and she gasps in surprise, breaking the kiss. They both know that he will feel nothing but a hollow cold – no life, no heartbeat, no soul. Yet, he keeps his hand there as he reclaims her mouth, and her chest feels warm for the first time in more than three hundred years. 

She forgets that he needs to breathe, so she’s caught off guard when he pulls away with a low moan, panting for air. She’s undeterred, though, peppering his jawline and neck with soft kisses as she lightly strokes the skin exposed by his torn collar.

His finger caresses her chin, and she looks up. His eyes are almost black with how dark they’ve gone with desire. He tilts her head up so that their lips meet again, and her hand moves from his collarbone down to his chest, working deftly at the first few buttons of the ruined uniform. He twitches when her fingers slip underneath the cloth and touch skin, but he doesn’t stop kissing her. When she finally feels his heart racing under her palm, she sighs.

He pulls her in even closer than she thought possible, until she can feel him all around her. But it’s not nearly enough - she needs more.

And so does he.

* * *

 

_“It hurts sometimes, more than we can bear. If we could live without passion, maybe we’d know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow…empty rooms…shuttered and dank. Without passion, we’d be truly dead.“ - Angelus, Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Passion_

* * *

 

_Gleb’s dreams are a whirlwind._

_He sees blood and bodies and flashes of red-gold hair. Anya smiles at him from amid a pile of corpses, sweet and kind and innocent. Then she transforms, and as he stands frozen, she calmly walks over to him. He feels her fangs sink into his throat, and he tries to fight back. But she slowly drains him, and he goes limp in her arms._

He bolts upright, gasping, pain searing his entire body.

He’s in a bed, but not one he recognizes. Confused, he quickly feels around his neck and shoulders for bite marks, relieved to find his skin unmarked.

“I didn’t bite you,” Anya remarks dryly, and he looks up to find her sitting at a nearby table, loosely wrapped in a silk robe. “If I did, you’d be dead by now.” She pauses. “Or worse.”

His eyes narrow at the implication. She turns back to the tea she’s making, face somber, and there’s a weighted silence.

“You have a bed?” he blurts out, to break the tension.

She blinks at him. “Of course I have a bed. I’m not a barbarian.” She drops a slice of lemon into a steaming cup, then, apparently satisfied, brings it over to him.

He takes the tea, and as he sips, he glances surreptitiously at her mussed appearance and feels heat rushing to his face as the memories of the previous night flash through his mind. It doesn’t escape her attention – nothing does – and her grin widens.

“I should have mentioned it earlier, I suppose,” she quips.  “The floor did get uncomfortable.”

She leans over and brushes a hand against his cheek. He can feel the tightness in the skin there where the cut she inflicted is healing. She traces a finger over the spot and presses her lips lightly to it.

He finishes the tea, and she takes back to the table. She returns with an armful of bandages and ointments, and pulls the blanket away from him as she sets about inspecting the rest of his wounds. He flinches when she gets to his knee – he thinks he might have broken something there.

She runs cold fingers over it. “It’s not too serious,” she assures him. “Rest up, and it will heal fine.”

“I came here to kill you,” he says softly, remembering how she incapacitated him with that kick. He’d known in that moment that it was over – he was going to die –

“I hadn’t noticed,” she retorts. But her mouth turns downwards, and she looks away.

He touches her arm. “You didn’t end it.”

Her face is a smooth and cool mask. “Neither did you.”

“I told you that I loved you,” he confesses. “I meant it.”

“I’m not capable of that,” she reminds him harshly. “I don’t have the soul for it.”

“Then why am I alive?” he asks simply. He needs to know that there is hope for her – that he had not made a mistake not staking her when he had the chance –

“I don’t know,” she admits, and there’s a tremor in her voice. “Gleb, I don’t know what these feelings are. I haven’t felt anything like this in centuries.  _I don’t even remember what it’s like to be human._ ”

She’s shaking violently now, and he wraps his arms around her to steady her. “Everything you were to me – that was human,” he whispers.

She laughs bitterly. “It was an act.”

“A remarkable act, then, to close it by sparing my life,” he points out. “Can you kill me now?”

She responds by kissing him, and, so quietly he barely catches it, mutters, “No.” She gazes up into his eyes, “If I had a heart, it’d be yours.”

It’s enough for now, and he resumes the kiss, pulling her down onto him and pushing the robe off her shoulders.

He still does not know what will happen after this. How they can last, if they even will, as different as they are – vampire and slayer, immortal and mortal, soulless and ensouled. But they’re here now, and there’s no turning back.

They have made their choices.


	6. Settings Prompt: Hospital (Emergency Room)

Gleb doesn’t know where he is.

He was patrolling the streets, doing his duty, when he saw the drunks. Perhaps he should have recognized that he needed backup then. But Gleb is young, freshly assigned to the streets, and desperate to prove himself, to a fault.

He probably put up a fight – at least, he hopes he did. At least it would be worth the blood that paints everything he sees a hazy red and the pain searing through what seems to be every single nerve in his body.

It’s cold where he’s lying, and his uniform feels damp in places, sticking to his skin and intensifying the chill. He can vaguely make out muffled voices in the distance.

His head feels heavy, and he wants to sleep. He closes his eyes, and he’s about to doze when cool fabric sweeps across his forehead. He feels it move down to his eyelids, gentle and light. When he opens his eyes slightly, his vision isn’t red anymore, even though his surroundings continue to swim.

The hand holding the cloth travels down to his cheek, and he can make out golden hair. “Comrade?” a sweet female voice echoes.

He tries to answer, but his mouth doesn’t obey him. His vision begins to dim at the edges.

Focus. He needs to focus. He trains his eyes on the figure in front of him, and even through the haze, he can tell she is beautiful.

“You’ll be alright,” the voice continues. So soft. So ethereal. Perhaps this is death beckoning, sending an angel to claim him. Gleb can think of worse ways to die.

* * *

The next time he awakens, Gleb is greeted by decidedly less pleasant, if not unfriendly, sights.

His comrades in the army peer down at him, their expressions a mix of relief and annoyance. As he sits up, painfully, in his hospital bed, they berate him for his stupidity in trying to take on a rowdy crowd of drunk rebels alone and getting soundly beaten to a pulp in the process. Sheepish, he accepts their criticism, promising to never do it again.

As they chatter around him, he wonders if the figure he saw was real, and if he might see her again. But he never gets the chance to find out when the hospital deems him healthy enough to be discharged. They need the bed.

He does recover in time at home. When he returns to work no worse for wear, he finds himself studying the faces he passes more carefully, listening to the timbre of their voices.

As the years pass, his friends press him to find someone, to marry as many of them are beginning to do. Gleb tries, he really does. But each time he tries, he sees the angel before his eyes, hears her voice in his ear. And his interest inevitably wanes.

Perhaps the angel actually did kill him, in a way.

* * *

He’s just patrolling the streets, doing his duty, when he sees the crowd of rebels. He’s Deputy Commissioner now, and they are not drunk. And so, wisely, they scatter at the sight of him.

As he chases them off, he sees a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye, and he stops.

She’s hunched over, the broom in her hand sweeping across the pavement. A phantom tingle runs across Gleb’s forehead.

A truck backfires loudly in the distance, and she lets out a cry. He hears her voice, and finds himself running to her.

And he tells the angel, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”


	7. Settings Prompt: Snowstorm (Twilight AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I basically jump straight into this, so I hope y'all are familiar with the concept of the Twilight vampire and the universe! If not, leave me a review and I'll be happy to answer questions about the lore!

The law must be upheld.

Gleb had been bound by the law since he was human. It was fitting that even beyond that, he remained bound.

He wrapped his ash-colored cloak more tightly around himself as the wind picked up, howling in his ears and blowing the hood off his head. White ice battered his face, attempting to shield his view. Not that it mattered. No vampire would be deterred by something as mundane as a snowstorm, not least a member of the Volturi guard. Especially with the threat that loomed.

The Romanians could not be allowed to return. It would destroy the world of secrecy the Volturi had worked so hard to build for all vampires’ sake.

It had long since been assumed that the ancient coven, which had ruled openly and shamelessly among the humans, had died out. It had been over a thousand years, after all, since the Volturi had deposed them. There were a few stragglers out there, but nothing, it seemed, the guard had needed to trouble themselves with, weak, broken, and  _petrified_  as they were.

Then, shortly after the Russian Revolution, whispers reached Aro’s ears. The Romanians were gathering again. One more member of the ruling class had survived – one was who younger, stronger, more  _gifted_  than the others had been. One, he said, around whom the remains could rally, if she were to find them.

Anastasia.

And Gleb was the best tracker the Volturi had. There was no question of sending anybody else.

His sharp ears picked up the faint chugging of an approaching train. His dark raiment was far too obvious against the snow, and he made quickly for the silhouette of the nearby trees. As the locomotive came closer, so did the scent of human blood, igniting the usual burn in his throat. But thirst was unimportant. The law came first, always the law.

He watched the cars pass, idly considering his need to hunt by tonight. Just as he was about to turn away, he caught a different scent in the air. Something more than human.

Rosemary. Grapefruit. Sandalwood. Immediately, he straightened, all his senses on high alert. He burst silently from his hiding place and made a running leap, managing to land on top of the last car.

Gleb never doubted his instincts.

* * *

“Why are we hiding in the baggage car?” Anya asked again from where she sat on the floor.

Dmitry ran a hand through his hair as he pressed against the door, looking tense. “I felt something. It’s not safe.”

Anya sighed and leaned her head against the wall. The snowstorm had made it cold, which was a comfort as the train rumbling along the tracks under her feet was doing nothing to quell her pounding head. From the other end of the baggage car, Vlad shrugged.

She had always had the headaches, ever since she could remember, accompanied by flashes of fiery scenes and metallic screeching. They had intensified with her meeting Dmitry and Vlad – initially, this had excited the men, who thought she had the gift of foresight. But nothing she saw had ever made sense, and so their enthusiasm had dimmed, the migraines becoming more of a liability than anything.

If she truly was Anastasia, Anya wondered if Maria would also see her as a liability. The old leader of the Romanian coven was probably looking for a warrior, not a vampire who complained of human ailments like headaches. It was yet another disadvantage to add to Anya’s disappointing lack of recall.

Dmitry had begun pacing, which was worsening Anya’s mood. She was about to snap at him when he stiffened, nostrils flaring.

“Time to go,” he said in a clipped voice.

“What?”

He yanked her to her feet roughly. “Someone’s coming! We have to run!” He threw open the car door so forcefully, he nearly ripped it off. “Vlad! Come on!”

They were all lined up to leap into the snow when she saw who was coming. He was wearing a gray cloak, the hood of which hid most of his features. The exception was a pair of blood-red eyes that had fixed themselves on the three of them.

“The Volturi,” Vlad croaked out. “They’re coming for us – I knew it!”

The Romanians’ age-old enemies. They were coming for her. For Anastasia. Anya’s head swam, and through the pain assaulting her cranium, she could see burning castles. The air was thick with purple smoke and the smell of incense…

“Jump! Now!” Dmitry was shouting.

Anya didn’t think she had exerted more effort in jumping now than she had in the last how many years she’d been a vampire. When she landed, she was in the thick of a copse of trees.

And she was alone.

She started running through the trees, pushing all her senses to awaken. She needed to find Dmitry and Vlad, to detect the familiar notes of citrus and sandalwood.

She smelled the sage before she was caught, very nearly crashing headlong into the body that had materialized from seemingly out of nowhere. Suddenly, her arms were locked behind her, and there was a cold arm across her throat. She snarled and thrashed, but her captor barely seemed to notice as he began to drag her across the forest floor.

Anya had not survived this long without knowing how to fight, however. Perhaps underestimating her, he had left just a little bit of slack in his grip across her collarbone. Just enough slack. With as much strength as she could muster, she slammed her head into his chin.

He staggered, and she was able to yank her arms free. She shot for the trees, finally tasting the faint scent of grapefruit in the air.

Her captor flung himself at her, and a tree groaned and collapsed. Anya’s limbs were caught in a tangle of branches – she tore through them easily enough, but by then, he had lifted her by the neck. His hood had fallen back in the struggle, revealing his face.

If she was not fearing for her life, she might have thought it beautiful.

His ruby eyes widened as he looked up at her. He seemed struck dumb, and he released her. As she dropped onto the snow-covered ground, hands rubbing her throat, he backed up.

“I can’t,” he whispered, so softly that she barely caught it. 

The snow and wind whirled around them, but neither of them moved. When the Volturi soldier reached out again, it was hesitant, and his eyes were softer. Without fully understanding why, she slowly extended her hand. Their fingertips touched.

The warmth of his fingers was stolen away in the next second as he went flying into another tree. Dmitry was now crouched in front of her, growling. The rustling of leaves, followed by the smell of sandalwood, told her that Vlad was at her back.

The Volturi soldier had assumed an attack stance. His teeth snapped, and Vlad swore. Dmitry automatically edged backwards, the tension in his muscles suggesting that he was battling his base instinct to bolt for safety. The soldier noticed Dmitry’s distraction, and he charged.

Anya stepped directly into his path. “Don’t!” She didn’t even know if she could be heard above the wind.

There was a loud crunching sound – the forest floor protesting. Her nostrils filled with the smell of sage.

The Volturi soldier had stopped, just barely an inch from her. He looked anguished. Behind her, Dmitry drew in a sharp breath.

The soldier reached up to touch her cheek – feather-light against the snow on her skin. Then he turned away.

“Go,” he ordered quietly.

Dmitry didn’t need to be told twice, tugging on Anya’s wrist and pulling her to his side as he backed into the trees. Anya’s eyes sought the soldier’s face, her legs suddenly unwilling to move.

“Hurry!” Dmitry hissed.

As she turned her back on the copse of trees, she detected the fading scent of sage.

“Find me,” she whispered to the air, hoping it would carry her wishes.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to drop into my Tumblr inbox if you've got prompts you'd like filling! :)


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